


The Dependant Classes

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-24
Updated: 2007-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:52:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1630088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short bit about Peter's life in the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dependant Classes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hangingfire

 

 

"What's this, Colonel?"

"What's wrong with you? Can't the old Etonian read? It's your commendation."

"What for?"

"What for? That devilish piece of work up at Hooge last month that's what, you little fool Wimsey. Your company skirmish on a strong position in god-awful weather. How you and that rabble of fenland halfwits pulled it off, I'm buggered. Stupid bastards couldn't hit a blind mare at ten-feet." 

Peter clasped the document with both hands and peered at the tiny type joggling in front of his eyes. The text came into focus and he read the wire absently. The typographic machine's m was misaligned. 

"But, the casualty list..."

"Long and expensive. Lieutenant Marchbanks was an excellent man."

Peter peered up at his Colonel who was wrapped bulkily with woollens and a fur coat. A belt over his enlarged stomach held it all in place. Peter thought of the Denver Christmas pork strung with netting to keep pockets of flesh from rupturing. The war would be over by Christmas we'd all said. In August that had seemed barely time for a good showing. Now as Christmas was within weeks, it was a lifetime. 

Colonel Harris disliked Wimsey's daft stare and shrugged at sympathy for the lost men. 

"It was good work, Wimsey. You are showing some ability to deserve the office you were handed. It might keep you and some of your men alive." 

"But we lost the position again, Colonel."

Harris barked a laugh, "That's the war." His fat lips engulfed the rim of a silver hip flask. "You had better have a splash yourself."

He poured two nips into tin mug and stopped short of handing it to Wimsey. 

"For Christ's sake where are your gloves? Frostbite will get you 10 minutes with a surgeon and saw bone, 12 hours in the infirmary and then back to your post. And then I'd like to see you fire at Helmut with three stubs and half a thumb." 

Wimsey looked down at the pair of bare hands still clutching the orders. He raised his arms and was surprised to find they moved, as though the weak bony fingers of sick purple with dirty fingernails were his own. Where were the lily white and firm hands of the Denver portrait gallery? 

"I don't know, Colonel."

"What?"

"I can't remember, Colonel. I must have misplaced my gloves." 

"You have a batman don't you? Or did you loose him as well?"

"I, er, I don't know," he stammered. Peter reeled back through his memory. He saw the faces of dead men, their expressions frozen in their last thoughts: fear, shock and panic. These men often made him think of what he would look like when he died here. Posthumous vanity was the crown of narcissism, but he meant to look on with apathy at the inevitable.

None of the dead faces he recalled was his own man and Peter thought of his dead father's expression while lying in state after the fall. The Duke's face was pinched with annoyance and Peter, in customary self-absorbance, had then wondered if he was thinking of him. 

"I haven't seen him for at least three days," said Peter strangely cheerful. "But don't worry he'll turn up, he always does. Wouldn't leave me in the lurch."

"Your hands are about to fucking snap off. You are a useless piece of shit without your bloody family retainers. Perkins!" he shouted, "Get that uptight arse here for Wimsey and pull a pair of gloves from somewhere."

"No, no. My man will come back. I've had him for a long time now; he won't have chucked me. Not the sort to leave me strung out to dry, don't you know. He'll be back, probably just helping some boys up the line or digging a fellow out of a hole. Very handy with a shovel, my man." 

Harris stared. "You're looking white in the eyes Wimsey."

"What? I'm top-hole, thank you. Looking forward to my leave."

"A mania will not get you removed. I'll never approve it. I'll send you stark-raving back to your company. Don't try it."

"Oh, it's just my normal behaviour you see? Hard to cope with for more then ten minutes if you're not sozzled, so my friends tell me, what? But my man is used to it, so I'd like him back, thanks."

"Sir." A tall dark-haired man approached and acknowledged both officers with correct and very rigid salute. 

"Wimsey, here is your new batman, Lance-Bombardier Bunter."

"Bunter, this is Lord Peter Wimsey. The Lieutenant has three days leave, you will accompany him now and permanently when you return from the rear."

"Yes, sir," said Bunter. "It will be a pleasure to serve under you, my lord."

Peter acknowledged him with a brisk nod and said, "Really Colonel, Witherspoon will turn up."

"Excuse me, my lord. I am sorry to inform you but I did hear from Sergent Bacon yesterday as he was coming down the line that Sergent Witherspoon was injured." 

"What? No, I-" Peter shifted his feet and the grasping mud sucked his boots into the earth. He stumbled and landed on the floor of the trench. His strange purple hands began to sink in the mess but he felt a strong pair of hands grasp under each armpit and lift him free.

"Thanks, Bunter."

"I will be very happy to assist you as your temporary batman, my lord."

"Excellent," said the Colonel with a single clap at his own orderly cleverness. "Wimsey you are in dire need of some relaxation, my boy. If you'll take my advice you'll get a transport to Poperinge, go to Madame Josette's place and see Adele. Tell her I sent you, she's a sweetie and will put you right again. Bunter you see that the Lieutenant has his leisure and returns in three days. Now both of you: dismissed."

Bunter shouldered Peter's kitbag and his own and they joined the long highway of men walking in and out of the trenches. 

"May I enquire what are your musical tastes, my lord?"

"What?" he said, absently. "Oh, Bach mostly. Some Chopin if I am feeling frivolous."

"Perhaps then my lord, you may wish to visit the Concert Hall at Talbot House. I have heard that a small string group, aged members of the Paris symphony, will be performing tomorrow night."

"Thank you, Bunter. Wait- how the devil did you know, seeing as you've been up at the front?"

"Sergent Perkins has just come back from leave, my lord. He mentioned that there was a bit of a stir about the performance."

"Annoyed the comedians got chucked for the night, what? From now on Bunter, I won't ask your methods. It's like a magician's trick. Knowing the valet's secrets takes all the magic and wonder from your performance. You will remain as mystic as the all-seeing Oracle. Carry on, Bunter."

"Very good, my lord." 

 


End file.
